


Wishing You Were Somehow Here

by Mssmithlove



Series: Happiness Awaits [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bullying, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Sex Texts, Teenlock, Unilock, rugby!john, warning: bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:31:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4077997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/pseuds/Mssmithlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While John chases his dream of becoming a professional rugby player, Sherlock is stuck at University, wishing he'd come back and prove that he is, in fact, Sherlock's boyfriend since no one on campus seems to believe him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishing You Were Somehow Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IAmNotHere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotHere/gifts).



> For my fabulous, wonderful, caring, kind tumblr wife sporadicdonut, I don't know what I'd do without our fanfic exchanges and mini chats in my world, you are such an incredible friend and I appreciate you every day! 
> 
> _So 16 year old genius uni student Sherlock who is teased and bullied his entire time at uni because he keeps mentioning his older professional rugby player BF John, but no one had ever actually met him. So he spends his years at uni sad, but tries to stay strong for John, never actually telling him about the bullying. Then Sherlock's last year at uni, John gets a big break with the national team and the teasing gets worse for Sherlock with people calling him dillusional until graduation day_  
> 
> WARNING: There is bullying/cruelty/threats/mild violence and overall mean things happening in this story. If this is a trigger for you, PLEASE proceed with caution.

_**Good luck on your first day baby. I love you more than anything on this earth.** _

Flushing from the center of his chest to the tips of his ears, Sherlock grins imprudently down at the mobile in his hand, tracing the screen with the pad of his thumb over the words he's read so many times before and yet somehow still always make his stomach flutter. Even after four years, after so many similar texts on the first day of every semester of his university career, there is still something about receiving a text message from his partner, cheesy or otherwise, that always gets Sherlock feeling a bit light-headed and warm all over. He drags his finger along the screen, touching those loving words that, though not the first time he's received them, still seem to mean so very much. He swipes open the reply box and begins to tap out a reply when-

"Ah, I see the summer did nothing to dissuade our delusional genius," Sebastian Wilkes gravely, smug, infuriating voice filters into his ear as the boy takes his usual seat in the row just behind Sherlock, saddling up in that irritating way he seems to take unnecessary pleasure in. "Did your precious rugby player send you a text? Telling you how much he  _loooves_  you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he did," Sherlock snaps back, refusing to turn around. What would be the point? Seb will keep on talking, whether Sherlock looks him in the eye or not.

Seb, to Sherlock's non-surprise, throws his head back and barks out a laugh. "Oh god, you are _pathetic_ ," he cackles. "It's been four  _years_  and still you're going to continue with this imaginary boyfriend lie?"

"I'm not lying," Sherlock replies airily, already sick to death of having to repeat this conversation for the thousandth time. Sebastian Wilkes has no imagination on the best of days, and it's unbelievably exhausting.

"I mean,  _really_ ," Seb continues as though Sherlock hasn't just spoken. "A  _rugby player_? And not only that, but a  _professional_ one? Attempting to make England's  _national team_? You could have picked someone more convincing at least!"

Sherlock tugs his books free from his bag, tucking his precious mobile safely into his pocket to protect those loving words from his significant other away from the nasty trash Seb insists on spewing.

"Someone local maybe?" He continues, and from the sound of it, his small group of followers have joined him to revel in his verbal tear down of Sherlock Holmes, the titters and sniggering coming from either side of him telling in their anxious ways. "Or no, wait, that wouldn't work. They'd have to play along with your lie, right? Have to actually  _interact_ with you, maybe even  _touch_  you." The cackles that follow only heighten the volume of Seb's next words. "And who in their right mind would agree to  _that_?"

Sherlock doesn't respond. There is no point. Anything he says goes unheard anyway.

Besides, this is relatively mild to what he's endured years previous. Really, he should feel lucky that after a nice long holiday spent hidden away with the man he's been in love with since primary school this is all he has to deal with. Truthfully, he had assumed it would be much worse.

He'd had the misfortune of meeting one Sebastian Wilkes his first day of university four years previous, by no fault of his own. At age sixteen, beginning university two years early, Sherlock sort of figured he'd be a target. Being the smartest kid in the room and having no qualms about flaunting it didn't exactly boost one's social status, especially when said smartest kid is just that- a kid. Older teens didn't particularly appreciate his brash personality or blunt deductions of which he has no issue rattling off, finding him rather off-putting and rude. He's never cared. He knows he's better, most of these young men and women simply jealous of his genius and unsure of how to handle his intelligence, their funny little brains no where near his level. He's comfortable with himself. Although, he hadn't realized how instrumental John Watson had been in fueling that confidence in him, always supporting him and loving him for exactly who he is, until they'd been separated by dreams and school.

John Watson.

Sherlock's partner, lover, best friend and current pro-rugby trainee, John Watson is everything to Sherlock Holmes. He's quietly kind and subtly funny and stunningly handsome.

And presently not here.

Not anywhere near here.

Not here to prove to this insufferable human being currently perched to the left of Sherlock's shoulder that yes, in fact, he is real and yes, in fact, he loves Sherlock and yes, in fact, they've been together for the entirety of uni thus far.

To be fair, John has no idea any of this has been going on.

Sherlock doesn't tell him.

He'd only worry and feel guilty and who would that be helping? No, John needs to be focusing on rugby. John needs to be focusing on his own success. John does not need to be worrying about Sherlock.

"You know, if you're that lonely," Sebastian continues, "you could always call an escort service. The blokes that get paid may be the only ones that would actually agree to touch a freak like you."

"Ah, and be just like you?" Sherlock whips around, eyes scanning over the disheveled appearance of Sebastian Wilkes, taking in the marks and loose threads and telling words that have just tumbled out of his mouth like the idiot he is. "Based on the finger-shaped bruises on your neck and the scratches on your cheek, I assume you yourself pay for sex and may have gotten a bit handsy for a call girl's liking this past weekend?"

The crimsoning of Sebastian's face is immediate and the rest of his cronies give nervous laughs around him, knowing they shouldn't be enjoying their leader's embarrassment but unable to help themselves. Pathetic lot, all of them.

Sherlock doesn't suppress the smirk twitching at his lips.

"You little bastard," Sebastian spits, "you don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Sherlock mutters flippantly. "I'm sure it's difficult for you to reconcile the fact that you have to fund your violent fetishes, finding no willing partners to participate in your sadistic bedroom preferences while the 'freak' as you so enjoy referring to me as, has a partner who voluntarily takes part in sex with me. I can't imagine what that must feel like for you, someone you see as so beneath you actually having a healthy, stable, enjoyable relationship while you can't even get a date without one hundred quid on hand."

Sebastian's face is almost purple with fury and Sherlock wonders vaguely if steam may come out of ears, the rage clearly bubbling hot in his system.

"How  _dare_  you-"

"Yes, yes, how  _dare_  I speak the truth," Sherlock flips his hand in dismissal, turning back around to face the front of the lecture hall, ignoring the small, nasty churn in his stomach. "Must you repeat yourself constantly?"

It's not safe, saying things like this to Sebastian Wilkes. Sherlock knows better than to provoke the angry beast that lies inside his classmate. He usually sits silently and allows the torment to wash right over him, ignoring the sick laughter of the group of boys that follow Seb around like lost puppies as he debases Sherlock's relationship to make-believe and Sherlock himself to some pathetic sod, making some feeble attempt at seeming normal by pretending to have someone in his life that loves him. Normally, Sherlock lets it go. Or, well, pretends to let it go until he can return to his quiet flat on Baker Street and curl in on himself, the loneliness and sting of vicious words overwhelming him more often than he'd ever care to admit.

He'd learned his lesson so many years ago, the first semester in school, the very first day. One of John's precious text messages had just arrived, words of love and adoration scrawled across the screen as they embarked on their separate journeys, vowing to keep the other involved as much as possible. Giddy with happiness and anxious in a new environment, Sherlock had barely registered an older boy dropping down next to him in his lecture hall, grinning from ear to ear and introducing himself as Sebastian Wilkes, Seb for short.

And Sherlock, looking back on it now, had been so bloody stupid. So unbelievably reckless. So unlike himself, telling Seb so much more information than he ever should have, explaining all about his stud of a boyfriend currently chasing his dream to play for the England national rugby union team, preening like a bloody peacock at how proud he was of John and how he knew he would make it in a few short years after extensive training with a professional team and on and on and on. He hadn't caught on, his young, incandescently happy, naive heart totally wrapped up in John Watson and his goals, that Sebastian was feigning interest, eyes widening with every presumed lie that fell from Sherlock's lips, mouth quirking with condescension and amusement that by the time Sherlock had finished his tale, Seb was all but on the floor, cackling away at the young boy and his fantasy world, exclaiming pity and mockery.

In hindsight, maybe Sherlock's life did seem fantastical to an outsider. Maybe having a partner that had a real shot at making a nationally recognized sports team did seem unbelievable. Maybe a younger boy exclaiming the story with such fervor as Sherlock had made it impossible to accept.

Maybe it was just Sherlock. A young, rather odd boy, starting uni far earlier than most, highly intelligent, very much in love with all things scientific, maybe a bit gawky and uncoordinated in his young body, not quite comfortable in his skin. It could have been a multitude of things that started the teasing.

However, things had only gotten nastier over the years. Even as Sherlock matured, body filling out to a tall, healthy stature, wild curls calming with a bit of product, he remained a target. Teasing turned to downright bullying, Seb gathering a small group of boys to join in on the taunting of the prodigy teen who had no business, in their opinion, on a university campus, getting better marks than the rest of their class and excelling much faster than most. Things came to rather ugly blows when Sherlock continued to fight back, spitting venomous deductions and secrets those boys would sooner die than allow to be known by the entire school, taking small satisfaction in watching their features fall, faces ruddy with humiliation.

It was a bad move on his part. Horrible planning. Miserable miscalculation.

He'd sworn he wouldn't make that mistake again. Not after the very serious tongue lashing he'd received while being crowded into an empty hallway by four rather large boys, Seb leading the pack with a sickening gleam in his eye and a promise on his lips that if Sherlock continued spilling truths he had no business knowing, Seb and his band of brothers would make him pay. It had shook Sherlock to the bone, needing no further proof that Sebastian Wilkes meant every word he said.

At the time, Sherlock had been so inexperienced with any sort of thing like this. He wasn't disliked during secondary school, nor teased, though looking back on it now it probably had less to do with how well-liked he was and more to do with how well-liked  _John_  was.

John Watson has been Sherlock's best friend for the better part of ten years, having joined the same grade when Sherlock had bumped up two years, his 'massive intellect' as John likes to so lovingly put it had dropped him right into classes with John Watson. Inseparable on every occasion, John's name did not leave one's mouth without Sherlock's following shortly after. They were the closest of friends and the transition into a romantic relationship had been possibly the easiest thing in the world.

Well, for Sherlock it had. John, being two years older, had given a rather impressive lecture about how Sherlock was so young and how John didn't want him to do anything he didn't want to and how they should wait, they should wait, they should wait...

Which had lasted about a month before Sherlock had John pinned to the floor of his bedroom, snogging him senseless. At the tender age of fifteen, Sherlock knew from then on that John, only seventeen himself, was the one. _His_  one. His  _only_  one. And he had no intentions of letting him go. Not rugby, not university, not distance could keep them apart. And when the scouts showed up, eyeing John's sturdy form and fast feet and reliable hands, Sherlock hadn't batted an eye.

"You have to go," he'd urged him the first night after a game that someone had actually approached John about playing professional rugby.

"They want me to train with them," John had shrugged, as though that were the final nail in the coffin on his dreams, shaking his head down to the ground. "It's like eight hours from London."

"So?" Sherlock had bit back, actively working against his breaking heart, ignoring the rising panic that crept up his spine at the thought of not seeing John every single day, not seeing him smile or laugh. Not being able to kiss and hug him. It clawed at Sherlock's insides, the potential distance threatening what they have. But he'd known better than to say those things out loud.

He  _still_  knows better.

John's face had snapped up to catch Sherlock's facial expression, eyes scanning all over his features, searching for something that told him not to go. Something that would tell him that Sherlock didn't approve. That Sherlock wouldn't allow him to go.

Which was complete rubbish.

Sherlock would never keep John from something like that. Something so important.

And so John had flitted off to boot camp, which had led to team training, which had led to getting picked up by a small-time league which had led to possibilities and contracts and discussions and now, only yesterday, only just  _yesterday_ , a twenty-year-old Sherlock had gotten a call. A precious, tearful, breathless call, his twenty-two-year-old lover on the other end sobbing softly.

"I made it," his sweet, wonderful John had murmured disbelievingly into the receiver. "I… England. The…National team…Red and- and white and roses and…I…they want… want me and… I… I can't…I…I…I…  _Sherlock_."

God, it had been by far and away the most incredible phone call Sherlock had ever received, and that included the multiple occasions of phone sex John insists they have when they're apart.

Because it all led to one, single, stunning, perfect fact.

John is coming home.

In a few short months, after Sherlock graduates, after contracts end, after deals are signed, after summer begins, John is coming home to London.

To Baker Street.

To Sherlock.

And that is why today of all days is really not the day to fuck with one Sherlock Holmes as Sebastian Wilkes seems so hell-bent on doing. Today, the start of his last semester of four miserable years at university, every day a slow, agonizing torture, Sherlock can actually see the end. He can see the bright, shimmering, blond-haired blue-eyed light at the end of this dark, damp, dickhead of a tunnel and he can't watch his mouth today. Not today. Tomorrow, certainly he will hold his tongue and bite his cheek and shake with silent rage but today… well today, can't give two fucks about Sebastian Wilkes.

Which is immediately revealed as a very large mistake. As the professor of their lecture's booming voice echoes around the room to start class, Sherlock sits back in his seat, prepared to listen and take notes and maybe slip a reply text to his John, when suddenly quietly uttered words crawl across Sherlock's neck, so soft but fierce, biting into Sherlock's skin, skittering down his spine and making the hairs on the back of his head stand on end.

"You're going to regret that, Sherlock Holmes."

He doesn't even need to turn around. He doesn't even need to react at all. He knows Seb means it. He knows Seb means every sickening word of that whispered sentence.

And he believes him.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Back in the safety of the four walls of 221B, Sherlock flings himself onto his couch, digging his phone out from his pocket, praying to all that is holy that John Watson be available to talk. He needs a distraction from the impending beating he's certainly scored himself today.

_Are you busy?_

_**Out with the boys, but I can chat here. You okay?** _

_Of course. Just wanted to say hi._

_**You never just want to say hi.** _

_Well maybe I do today._

_**What's wrong?** _

Sherlock suppresses the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Even on bad days, it's nice to know John still knows him so very well.

_I'm fine. Really. How's the team?_

_**They're good. Teasing me mercilessly about my hot boyfriend I keep a photo of saved as my home screen on my phone, but otherwise good.** _

The smile stakes its claim as Sherlock's cheeks flame.

_You do?_

_**Of course I do, don't be daft.** _

_I am never daft._

_**Sure, you're not. What are you doing?** _

_Homework._

_**So, sulking on the couch?** _

_I never sulk. And I do more than lay around on the couch all day._

_**Oh yeah? Like what?** _

_I keep busy._

_**I miss you.** _

Sherlock bites at his bottom lip, warmth pooling in his abdomen as he reads over those three words. This is the best thing about texting John Watson. He's honest and random and sweet. He makes Sherlock feel important. Wanted. Precious in a way he never feels when not in contact with John.

_I miss you, too._

_**Phone sex?** _

Sherlock actually laughs out loud. They do this a lot, probably more than they should, sending sex texts to each other throughout the day and late into the night if one is unable to ring the other.

_Text sex?_

_**Technicality.** _

_Now?_

_**Yes, now.** _

_Aren't you out with your team?_

_**Yeah but I can leave if my sexy Sherlock wants to have a quick wank with me over the phone.** _

_Pervert._

_**Oh yeah, talk dirty to me baby.** _

Sherlock snorts.

_Wow._

_**Come on, you like it.** _

_What are you wearing?_

_**Nothing.** _

_Liar._

_**Not sexy, being called a liar.** _

_Then don't lie._

_**Fine, I'm wearing my sweaty practice jersey and shorts with grass stains all over them. Happy?** _

Sherlock's eyelids flutter at their own accord. A sweaty, dirty John Watson? Oh yes, that is right up his alley. He closes his eyes for a moment, picturing what John looks like after a game, his short, blonde fringe sticking up at all ends, mud smeared along his tanned cheek, eyes seeming bluer when accented by dark patches of filth, grinning from the adrenaline rush.

His phone vibrating snaps him out of his memory, which had been promptly turning into a fantasy.

_**You like that? You filthy boy.** _

Sherlock bites his lip, wondering if he dare respond with an affirmative, knowing full well that John is out with people, not hidden away in his bedroom to touch himself like Sherlock is considering doing. It's not the first time they've sent dirty texts but Sherlock can't recall the last time they'd done it while one of them wasn't alone.

He grins wickedly.

_I'd make you sweat even more while I rode your cock._

_**Jesus Christ, Sherlock.** _

_What?_

_**It's not decent for me to be out in public right now, thank you very much.** _

_You started it._

_**I did.** _

_**God I want you so fucking bad right now.** _

_**It's so unfair you can say eleven words to me and give me an erection in the middle of a pub.** _

_Go somewhere._

_I want you to touch yourself while I tell you how much I wish you were here so I could suck you off before I let you fuck me._

_**Oh, Jesus.** _

_**Hang on.** _

_You know how impatient I can be._

_I'd take you deep into my mouth until you hit the back of my throat._

_And then I'd swallow._

_**Sherlock Holmes I swear to Christ do not send one more filthy thing or I'll come right here in this pub.** _

_Go to the loo._

_Take out your cock and stroke it._

_Pretend it's my hand around it._

_Or my lips around it._

_Or my arse around it._

_**Baby** _

_**God, Christ, I want to fuck you. I want to fuck you so hard you can't walk for a week.** _

_Promise?_

_**Sherlock** _

_Are you touching yourself?_

_**Yes** _

_Thumb the head._

_Pretend it's me licking at it._

_Swirling my tongue around the tip._

_John?_

_John?_

Sherlock strokes himself as his phone sits silent, wanking furiously to the thought of John Watson hiding away in a filthy bathroom stall, dragging long pulls over his thick cock. He pictures John biting back growls and moans, hand a blur over himself, thinking of Sherlock, thinking of pounding into Sherlock. Which leads to Sherlock imagining that and it's all he needs to rip an orgasm straight through his body. It's quick but delicious all the same, the image of a naked John burning bright in his mind.

His phone buzzes.

_**Fuck, baby.** _

_**I love you so much.** _

John loves to smudge the lines between sexy and sweet, murmuring love while fucking Sherlock into the mattress, whispering how badly he wants to suck him off while holding his hand on a busy street. It's something Sherlock adores, never knowing these were things he craved until John gave them to him. It keeps him on his toes. It keeps things so bloody exciting.

It keeps Sherlock distracted.

It keeps Sherlock happy.

_I love you too._

_**I really miss you. Like a lot. Like more than usual.** _

Sherlock wants to reply with his own declaration.

But he's terrified if he starts, he won't be able to stop.

And he can't do that.

Not to John.

_It's only a few more months._

_**I know.** _

_**I just hate it.** _

_Me too._

_**I love you.** _

_You said that already._

_**So?** _

_I love you, too._

**_I'll call you in a bit._ **

Sherlock lays back on the couch, forgetting all his earlier fears and the empty days ahead of him, focused only on the phone call coming his way from the only person in the world he wants to hear from.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sebastian Wilkes is a sadistic bastard.

It's been almost a month.

A month of pure, silent, unnoticed bliss.

Seb no longer sits near Sherlock.

Seb no longer speaks to Sherlock.

Seb barely looks in Sherlock's direction.

It's been glorious.

And for the first two weeks, Sherlock knew better. He knew better than to believe that this would last. That Sebastian Wilkes had suddenly grown bored of his four-year-long heckling of Sherlock Holmes and decided to move on. He knew better.

But after two weeks, it got harder to remember. It got more and more difficult to recall that this wouldn't last forever, that something else must be afoot. That he by no means was safe.

But Sebastian Wilkes is and always will be a sadistic bastard.

It starts off with subtle touching.

Seb's abuse has never moved beyond verbal and at first, Sherlock hardly notices.

He's let his guard down. He's stopped picking up on his surroundings, stopped keeping an eye out for one of Seb's boys or Seb himself. It's been a month of nothing. He'd thought he was safe.

He'd been wrong.

The touching begins. Soft brushes of shoulders, maybe a slight bump of a hip in passing. It's nothing. Could just be accidental. Nothing intentional. Nothing harmful.

It's what Sherlock thinks.

But the subtly turns unsubtle soon thereafter.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_When are you coming home?_

_**About two months.** _

_**Right after your graduation!** _

_So you won't be back for graduation?_

_**Unfortunately not.** _

_Okay._

_**I'm sorry baby, I couldn't get out of it, we have a couple more games before I can come back.** _

_It's fine._

_**Are you okay?** _

_I'm fine._

_**I really am sorry.** _

_**I want to be there.** _

_**You know I do.** _

_I said it's fine._

_**You sure?** _

_I'm sure._

_**I love you.** _

_I love you, too._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Within weeks, brushes and bumps turn to hip checks and shoves as Sherlock makes his way to class.

It isn't subtle. It can't be mistaken.

A hand comes down on his bicep and pushes, not violently but just enough to send a message. Enough to warn Sherlock. Enough to set off alarm bells in his head. Enough to alert him that this is going to get worse. Enough to let him know this is definitely not over.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_When are you coming home?_

_**A little over a month, remember?** _

_Okay._

_**Did you really forget?** _

_I was just checking_ _**.** _

_**The answer didn't change.** _

_Okay._

_**Are you okay?** _

_**Sherlock?** _

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The first time he hears it, it's been two full months of silent threats, the assaults getting heavier handed, hips getting sharper. Bruises line the skin of Sherlock's arms and hips, his sensitive skin unable to take the blows without being marked. He used to love his overly receptive body, the affects of which resulted in praises from his gorgeous lover and mind-blowing sex. Now he loathes how it carries the evidence of the abuse he's enduring, with no proof that it is actually intentional. To an outsider it would appear an honest mistake. An accident. Sherlock just being clumsy.

But he knows better.

And when he hears it, after falling to the ground for the third time that day as another unseen person in the crowd throws a leg out and trips him, Sherlock knows he's not paranoid.

He knows he's not wrong.

The words twist around his brain like a vine, delving into crevices and wrapping round tight, a true mind-fuck if there ever was one. After weeks –  _months_  of the understated attacks on his slight frame, it doesn't take much.

"Graduation is going to be  _so much fun_."

It's Seb.

He knows it is. He knows that voice. Those smug, knowing words are all too familiar.

But when he whips around, eyes skittering across the nameless faces of students ignoring his sprawled out figure on the ground, he can't see him. He can't see his attacker.

And right then Sherlock begins to wonder if in fact he's going to make it out of uni and on to his life with John Watson after all. Or if he's going to end up in a ditch somewhere at the hands of Sebastian Wilkes.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_When are you coming home?_

_**I told you it would be next month. You okay? You seem a little…off lately.** _

_I'm fine._

_I'll see you in a month._

_**You say that like I won't talk to you before then ;)** _

_**Sherlock?** _

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"And the  _freak_ claims this is his _boyfriend_!"

He hears it long before he sees it.

The shell of Sherlock Holmes makes its way to his last week of classes, dragging himself to buildings with effort, surprised every time he manages to make it to class at all.

He's lost weight.

He's barely eaten.

John asks him at least six times a week if he's okay.

He's not.

Sebastian Wilkes is in his head.

Sherlock is knocked to the ground at least twice every single day, accompanied by a snide remark or a dark chuckle. He's informed constantly that he's a loser, a freak, the boy with no friends, the pathological liar.

His body is littered with scrapes and bruises.

It's exhausting.

He's so unbelievably tired.

But he doesn't sleep.

He can't.

He's simply waiting.

Waiting for graduation.

Waiting for whatever Sebastian Wilkes has in store for him.

For all the effort he's gone to, Sherlock is certain it's going to be something big.

But not before he can properly humiliate him. Tear him right down to the bone.

Which is apparently what today is for.

Sherlock watches as Seb stands at the head of the lecture hall, newspaper clutched in his grasp, eyes wide in feigned concern out into the small crowd of students listening to his words.

"That Sherlock kid is  _obsessed_  with this guy," Seb cries, stabbing a finger into the paper's headline.

Which of course Sherlock hasn't seen.

He should have seen.

John must have told him.

He should have been paying attention.

He hadn't been.

"I think we ought to call the coppers," a boy Sherlock recognizes as one of Sebastian's followers. "This is sick. He probably wants to do something freaky to him."

"Skin him and eat him," another one of Seb's gang nods. "He'd be just the type."

"Murder him in cold blood when he denies knowing him," another boy calls, shaking his head in disgust.

"The kid is a  _freak_ ," Seb emphasizes, spitting the word as though it's vile on his lips. "They call him a genius but I think that's just a way to hide how truly fucked up he is."

"So fucked up," one of the boys echoes. "Sherlock Holmes is a psychopath."

"Absolutely!" Another boy calls.

Jesus.

It's like mob mentality.

Even in the small setting, it's frightening. Seb is doing an excellent job of playing the concerned citizen, eyes wide with worry and fear, as though Sherlock may jump out and steal his innocence using the skin of John Watson to suffocate him. It would be laughable.

If Seb wasn't turning right at that moment and locking eyes on Sherlock, a subtle curve of his lips and a slight nod of his head all the confirmation Sherlock needs.

It's a game.

A game to break Sherlock.

And Sebastian Wilkes is winning.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_When are you coming home?_

_**That's like the tenth time you've asked me that baby.** _

_**I told you, it will be in a couple of weeks.** _

_**Sherlock, what is going on with you lately?** _

_**It's not like you not to remember things.** _

_**Sherlock?** _

_**Sherlock?** _

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

He'd tried desperately to get out of this. To not have to attend this godforsaken event.

But it's mandatory.

Required for students to attend graduation in order to receive their degrees.

And Sherlock hasn't endured four years of torture to come out empty handed.

Even if something is going to happen.

"Awe, it's our last day together," Seb sneers into his ear, his words dripping with sarcasm as he takes his old seat behind him, clearly unconcerned with alphabetical order for the stage call. "How will I survive without hearing about your precious John every day?"

Sherlock doesn't respond. He sits stoically, facing the stage, ignoring the sickening twist in his lower gut at the too hot breath on his neck.

"It's been four wonderful years, Sherlock. Don't you think we should have a nice celebration? Some way to commemorate our time together? Four beautiful years of delusions?"

Sherlock ignores the sweat forming along his brow as his body shivers with cool fear, the promise in Sebastian's words slithering over him like the presumptuous snake that he is.

"Come on," Seb breathes. "I bet the boys would appreciate a chance to say good-bye."

Biting hard on the inside of his cheek, Sherlock swallows, wondering which would be the best way to sneak out of this ceremony and out the back door without being seen by the boys lined up behind him. His eyes dart across the banquet hall, marking each exit in his memory and making a note of what lies behind each door, cement or gravel or carpet, all of which will be painful when shoved into it if the blokes follow, although if he can duck in time he can-

Several sharp gasps echo along the rows of family lining the walls, a few hollered excitements and then the crowd seems to break into cheers. Sherlock cranes his neck around, eyes flaring at the possibility of a distraction for him to escape unnoticed.

"Holy-"

"Is that-?"

"That's the new –"

"Why is he here-"

"Blimey-"

Sherlock's body temperature skyrockets to unhealthy levels as he takes in the aborted sentences and curious glances and excited clapping around him.

He can see the blond head coming his way before he has time to even properly look, that short, broad body all business, eyes trained on his target, brow knitted with focus.

John fucking Watson. Sly bastard.

He makes his way through the parting crowd, the rest of the guests seeming unsure how to react, stumbling over their words of praise and awe as they lay eyes on the new face of their beloved rugby team.

"He's short-"

"He's gorgeous-"

"I hear he's incredible-"

"Is he single?"

"He can take me out anytime he likes-"

John isn't paying attention.

Sherlock is on his feet before he's even thought about it, the heavy ache in his chest loosening slightly at the sight of blue eyes blinking back in concern.

"You're here," he breathes, bottom lip trembling around the words, never being more relieved to see his partner in his life.

"Sherlock," John murmurs brokenly, and without missing a beat, wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist and pulls him in to a bone-crushing embrace. Sherlock's own lengthy arms come up around John's shoulders, settling into their familiar position, Sherlock's cheek pressing onto the top of blond hair as John buries his face in Sherlock's chest. "I was so worried," John mutters into Sherlock's gown. "I was so worried about you baby. What is going on?"

"You're here," Sherlock mutters stupidly again, because he's safe. Suddenly, unexpectedly,  _finally_  he's safe. John is here. John will protect him and hold him and curse the ground those bastards walk on.

John is here.

John is  _here_.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" John repeats more insistently, voice breaking around his words and Sherlock pulls back slightly to find twin tear tracks along John's face.

"John," he cries softly, bringing his palms to John's cheeks. "Don't cry. Please, please don't cry."

"You scared me," John bites back, covering a sob with pinched lips. "You scared the hell out of me."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say. He hadn't meant to scare John. He'd been scared, but allowing John to be fearful? No, that hadn't been his intention in the least.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, pulling John back in. "I'm sorry but it's all okay. It's okay now."

"Are you going to tell me-"

"How much did he pay you?"

Sherlock's body goes rigid immediately, that voice having been trained within him to set off the panic button in his head.

John notices.

 _Of course_  John notices.

He pulls back, still clutching Sherlock to him, just enough to peer around his shoulder and glare at the boy who is now standing up behind him. Sherlock cranes his neck around to look Seb in the eye, finding a sickening gleam as though he's just gotten a joke that had been told.

John, for his part, doesn't find anything about his words funny. He glances up at Sherlock for a split second before glancing back to the boy addressing him.

"Sorry, what did you just say to me?"

Seb smirks, tossing a glance over either side of his shoulders to be sure his cronies are paying attention to what he assumes is about to be a stunning blow to Sherlock's emotional state. "Come on mate, tell us," he grins knowingly. "How much did he pay you to be here today to pretend to be his boyfriend?"

The straightening of John's spine is sharp and immediate, body pulling taut with boiling rage at the bully's words, mouth pinning itself into a line, white, furious line. Sherlock gives his hand a squeeze.

"Leave it, John," he murmurs. It's not that he doesn't think John could take all five of these blokes down in a single round. He could. It's more the fact that John is about to make be somebody. He's about to make a name for himself, become an idol in England, and Sherlock would prefer a silly brawl not to hinder any chance of that happening.

Besides, Seb isn't worth it.

John, however, isn't listening. With one single look to Sherlock and another back to Seb, John seems to read the situation like an open book. The veins in his neck are protruding with vigor, popping colorfully from his neck as he clenches his jaw tightly. His fingers close tighter around Sherlock's delicate knuckles, physically restraining himself. "We're not pretending," he grinds out through gritted teeth, shifting slightly forward while tugging Sherlock a pace behind him as though to physically shield him from any harmful words spoken about him.

Oh, John.

Little does he know.

"Come on!" Seb cackles, as though he and John are in on this together, waiting for the professional rugby player to join in on the fun of grinding Sherlock down to nothing. "He's a manipulative little prick. How much did he get you for? Little freak probably had-"

The crack of tight knuckles smacking against soft tissue and bone is so startling, Sherlock barely realizes John has stepped forward, still clutching Sherlock's hand in his right while taking a healthy swing at Seb's currently twisted face with his left, knocking the boy off balance and sending him tumbling into his back-up, the blokes remaining on their feet barely managing to catch his fall. Blood pours from his nose in dark red streaks, covering his nasty mouth and the hand that tries to cover it. "What the hell, mate-"

"I am not your  _mate_ , you fucking bastard," John barks, his captain's voice in full force and Sherlock moves toward him slightly, needing desperately to stay near him. "Don't you  _ever_  speak about Sherlock like that again. Do you understand me?"

Seb has the decency not to respond, looking thoroughly frightened.

His buddy to the left doesn't seem to be quite as competent. "Come on now, we were just having a laugh-"

"I suggest you stop speaking right this very minute," John spits venomously, turning his furious gaze to the newcomer. "Unless you'd like to end up in hospital."

The boy cowers to John's words, cringing down toward Seb's recoiling frame.

John glowers at them one by one, pulling Sherlock up along his back, holding him close.

"If I  _ever_  see any of you lot again," John seethes with quiet viciousness, "I can promise things will not end quite as nicely as they have today. I won't give you specifics but I will tell you that Sherlock's well being is my number one priority and I have no issue with being kicked off my new team for violent behavior. Or jail time. If you so much as  _breathe_  Sherlock's name, I will make you regret it. Are we clear?"

The five boys curl in on themselves slightly, suddenly seeming so small and pathetic compared to the moments they towered over Sherlock with sneers on their lips and nasty nicknames falling out of their mouths.

"I said," John growls furiously with a slight, threatening step forward, "Are we clear?"

The five boys nod vigorously, shuffling backward, trying desperately to slink out of reach of the angry rugby player.

John straights and nods. "Good."

He turns back to Sherlock, features still pinched but calmer as he takes in Sherlock's untouched state. "Now, shall I go find my seat so I can watch you graduate?"

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John gives him the entire taxi ride home to sit with his thoughts before the door closes them inside the four walls of Baker Street.

Then the angry beast of John Watson is let loose.

"What the  _hell_  has been going on Sherlock?! What did they do? What did they do to you? Did they hurt you? How long has this been going on? Who in the bloody hell do they think they are? Why didn't you  _tell me_?"

Sherlock has no answers. All of his reasoning seems so small and feeble now, risking his health and well being to endure torturous day after torturous day. He racks his brain for an explanation, something to give to his partner, proof that he is okay and he had it under control.

But he hadn't.

And he doesn't know what he was thinking. He doesn't know. He doesn't  _know_.

"Hey," a blurry John is suddenly standing toe to toe with him, eyes softening from bitter rage to genuine concern, hands coming to lay against his cheeks. "I'm sorry, baby." He thumbs at the wet spots on Sherlock's face.

He hadn't realized he'd been crying.

"I didn't want you to know," he suddenly sobs softly. "I didn't want to distract you from your training."

The darkening in John's face is rapid but he keeps it in check. "I don't care about bloody rugby more than you, Sherlock. If you are in trouble or hurting, you need to tell me. Always."

"I couldn't-"

"Yes, you could have," John bites back fiercely. "You can always talk to me. Christ, I thought you'd know that by now, baby. After all these years? You're still  _everything_ to me."

"John," Sherlock cries quietly, pulling at John's shirt to bring him closer. He buries his face in John's shoulder and weeps. "I was scared."

The sound that emits itself from John's mouth is awful. It sounds harsh and painful and achy and it tears Sherlock in two. "You don't need to be scared," John croaks. "Not with me. Not ever."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't do it again, okay? I'll always be here for you."

"You promise?"

"I promise. God, I promise, Sherlock. I…I missed you so much."

The tears are finally slowing as Sherlock clings to John. "I missed you too, John. Every single day."

"I missed you terribly, love," John whispers again, pulling back enough to lay gentle kisses on Sherlock's lips. "So very much."

They stand quietly, exchanging soft kisses and quiet words, soothing each other through the storm, rocking them back to calmness.

"Are you coming home?" Sherlock ventures through the quiet. "Are you coming home to me?"

"Yes," John breathes. "God, yes, I'm home for good."

The soft whimper that escapes Sherlock's lips prompts a deep kiss from John.

"You're so beautiful, Sherlock," John murmurs, fingers dragging through Sherlock's curls in one swift motion. "Christ, did you get more beautiful while I was away?"

Liquid heat seems to pore from John's fingertips seeping into the follicles of Sherlock's skull and rolling through him with ease, immediately melting his entire frame into the touch with a soft moan. "John," he murmurs, eyelids falling closed, unable to do much else but  _feel._ The way John works his body with nothing but his hands is so familiar, gliding over tendons in his neck and sharp bones in his shoulders.

"Oh, love," John whispers. "God, don't… don't say my name like that."

Sherlock grins. "Why not?"

"Because it makes me want to take you to bed," John growls.

Sherlock doesn't miss a beat. "Then take me to bed already."

A low groan rises from John's chest as he slides practiced fingers through the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, pulling them free of their captivity, peeling back either side of Sherlock's button down to reveal his nude chest. He runs his hands down the smooth plane of skin, fingers trailing down pectoral muscles, tapping each nipple as they pass over top, the darkened skin tightening to hardness in their wake. Sherlock gasps at the touch, having almost forgotten what it is like with John. How gentle he always is. How well he knows Sherlock's body and how much he uses that knowledge to his advantage, caressing every sensitive spot he can locate and playing it like a fiddle.

John's thumb and forefinger close over each of Sherlock's nipples and pull just enough to drag a moan from Sherlock's lips. "John," he gasps, eyelids fluttering under the touch.

"Oh," John breathes, leaning in to capture Sherlock's lips again in a searing kiss. "Christ, let's get to the bedroom."

Sherlock curves his face into John's neck, inhaling the scent of his lover deeply into his lungs, wishing for it to fill every fiber of his being. "Why not here?"

"Because I'm not shagging you for the first time in months on the cold floor of our flat," John chuckles huskily in Sherlock's ear, his breath sending shivers along his skin.

"You mean my flat," Sherlock corrects softly. John doesn't live here. He crashes here on when he's in town and has a key but he doesn't live here. He doesn't occupy a space of his own here. As much as Sherlock wishes he did.

"No," John murmurs, arms tightening around Sherlock's waist. "I mean  _our_  flat."

It takes four full seconds for his foggy, lust-filled brain to process exactly what just came out his boyfriend's mouth, the words suddenly bolding and vibrating, bouncing off the walls of Sherlock's Mind Palace, snapping its fingers and demanding to be examined.

Sherlock freezes. "What?"

Running his nose along the curve of Sherlock's neck, John doesn't seem put-off in the least and Sherlock's rigid frame. "You heard me. And I do so loath repeating myself."

He can't even appreciate the joke, the jab at his sarcastic retorts to John's questions. He can't even see the joke. He's still swimming through the first sentence John spoke. The one that may have meant so much more or so much less than John's playful tone made it sound like.

He's desperately combing through possibilities, the euphoria of hope hovering over his mind, requesting entry while simultaneously awaiting the crushing agony of the truth not being exactly what he wants.

John continues his kisses along Sherlock's jawline, ignoring the boy's rigid posture and short breaths, humming against Sherlock's soft skin like nothing is amiss.

Sherlock can't think. Which is made worse when John's lips trail along his collarbone, licking along the dip between shoulder and bone. "John," he gasps, a plea twisting with concern, want battling for dominance over need.

John's mouth rides down the center of Sherlock's sternum, hot breath leaving a scorching trail in its wake as it finds its way to Sherlock's left nipple.

Sherlock knows he's being teased. He knows John loves his sensitive body and his long limbs and his wild curls. John has said so on no less than twenty different occasions.

But he can't quite let himself go. He can't quite give up control until he knows. He has to _know_.

Grasping at blond fringe, Sherlock hauls John's face back up to his, eyes already scanning over every laugh line, every blushed pore, every fiber that makes up John Watson's beautiful face. "Please tell me," he whispers brokenly, terrified to believe and yet wanting so badly to know. "Just say it. Just once. Please."

"I'm home," John replies softly although the conviction and excitement is emphasized by the grin that spreads across his features. "I'm home, love. I live here now. With you. At 221B Baker Street."

Sherlock blinks. And blinks again. And once more, just to be sure John doesn't suddenly disappear into thin air and this whole conversation abruptly becomes a very bad dream.

But John doesn't disappear. John stays put, blue eyes shining, bottom lip trembling slightly.

John is home.

John is moving back to London.

John is moving to Baker Street.

John is home.

John is home.

John is Sherlock's.

"You're home," Sherlock croaks, only just registering the happy tears rolling down his cheeks in twin, wet tracks. "You're… you're home is…is with me."

"My home is with you," John echoes, his deep blue eyes never resembling the ocean more as they well up.

"John," Sherlock refuses to admit how much more of a sob that sounds like than anything else but it doesn't seem to matter because John pulls him in anyway, wrapping thick, muscled arms around his thin body and crushing him into the best hug Sherlock has ever had.

John's home.

No more nights alone.

No more empty flat.

No more university bullies.

No more Sebastian Wilkes.

John is coming home.

All is right with the world.

"So… flatmates?" John garbles against the collar of Sherlock's shirt, his face pressing into the material.

Flatmates.

As though that single word sums up what they are to each other.

No.

John Watson is not Sherlock's  _flatmate_.

John Watson is Sherlock's partner. Lover.

Everything.

John Watson  _belongs_  to Sherlock.

And with that final, primal, absurdly possessive thought, Sherlock is dragging John by the collar to his room, needing desperately to be taken at this very moment, before his entire body implodes with fierce desire.

John doesn't put up a fight.

Clothes are being pulled at, all but tearing in two as each boy grapples for the upper hand, pushing and yanking and tugging to their mutual goal of bringing their nude bodies together.

"You're home… you're home," Sherlock is whispering and even to his own ears his words sound disbelieving and wondrous as though he'd imagined another scenario. Which, in fact, he had. One where John Watson played for a team that wasn't England. One where they never made it back to London, Sherlock following John across the continent to chase his dream. And Sherlock's heart would have followed dutifully. If that's what John wanted, if that's where his road had taken him, Sherlock and his 'Property of John Watson' stamped heart would have tagged along.

But his soul?

His soul would have stayed in London.

His soul would have still resided at Baker Street, roaming the busy streets of the bustling city, jumping across rooftops and shimmying down drainpipes. Sherlock would have left his soul behind.

And now he didn't have to.

Now he would have both. His heart and soul, body and breath belong wholly to John Watson and after four miserable years, he won't be waiting in agony for months on end to act upon those truths.

No, this time. This time he gets to keep John Watson.

And he can't wait another second.

He falls back against the comforter of his bed, blankets puffing up around him as he stares up at his gorgeous, naked lover, tan from extensive training in the sun, beautiful marks along his torso, arms and legs. When they were boys, John was always cute, short and cherub-like but as the years passed, John's precious baby features had morphed into something wholly man, handsome and rugged and strong, his body taking beatings during the sport he's played for a living yet his athletic build ever durable and coming out only more capable after every game.

Staring up at darkened able muscles, Sherlock's tongue snakes out from between his teeth to lick against rapidly drying lips, splaying himself against the sheets like the wanton thing that he is, offering himself to John for the taking.

"Oh, love," John murmurs, gaze searing into every inch of Sherlock's skin it takes in, drawing the hairs of his body on end, gooseflesh rippling out from under his skin. "My beautiful,  _beautiful_  love."

And just like that, the few inches of space between them are suddenly unacceptable. He wants to demand John not say such things like that. He wants to offer a glare and a pout and furrowed brow to express how utterly infuriating it is to have his lover stand there and say such incredibly perfect things to him and not touch him. How completely maddening it is to lay here, willing and raring and then to have the breath completely knocked from his body as John admires him from above, robbing Sherlock even a fighting chance at responding with something resembling words.

John Watson is a master in the bedroom.

And Sherlock is suddenly scrambling to his knees, face down in the comforter, arse in the air, prepared to be… well, prepared, knowing this was the easiest and fastest position, needing John inside of him as soon as possible.

Which is why, after a soft, loving chuckle, a rattle of the bedside table and a telling dip in the bed promises for a touch in just moments, Sherlock yelps in surprise as shock waves of delicious pleasure rocket through his system, as his protruding erection dangling between his legs is very suddenly engulfed in snug, dank heat. The buck of his hips is as involuntary as it is unwelcome and Sherlock rolls his forehead over his folded arms to look down his torso, dazedly attempting to sort through the sensations sizzling through his veins.

Clever John.

John lays on his back, head settled comfortable between Sherlock's thighs, pink lips wrapped around Sherlock's cock in a perfect ring, two fingers pressing to the heavy sac that lay at the base.

The blood is rushing to the tip of Sherlock's erection at this angle, the mushroomed head becoming almost unbearably sensitive as John swirls his tongue around it. Sherlock moans – loudly – the sight of John on his back beneath him like this, dragging these sensations from him, his unprepared body shaking, tearing itself in two over which he wants to beg for more – to come just like this or have John deep inside his body. The decision is an impossible one.

Although the answer doesn't seem to be his to make as John's slick, well-trained fingers find their way to the ridges of Sherlock's entrance, sliding right inside, popping passed the first ring of muscles before he has a chance to tighten. Sherlock gasps, the intrusion unfamiliar, though not unwelcome, the sensation of having something inside of him eluding him for months on end while John was away. He has other options of course but nothing is quite the same as actually being with John, experiencing John's fingers working him open and John's cock inside of him. It's better than any toy could do, of that Sherlock is certain.

He rests his head back along his forearms and rocks into John's ministrations over his body, whispering broken breaths and cries of pleasure.

Another finger inserts itself next to the first and then another and before Sherlock can announce his impending orgasm all touches of his body come to an abrupt halt. He whimpers into the sheets, snapping his teeth closed around his skin to suppress the begging his body is attempting to force out of him, wanting so badly to implore John into fucking him into the mattress.

John bites his arse cheek in a playful, tender way, chuckling huskily under his breath. "Turn over, baby. I want to see you."

Sherlock flips himself over so quickly he almost tumbles right off the bed. John laughs, catches him by the hips and hauls him into position, throwing both his legs over his shoulders. "Hi," he grins, features soft and fond, cheeks slightly red from the suction he'd been skillfully applying to Sherlock's cock only moments earlier.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, though the act is hindered by the wanton shake of his thighs. "Would you please get on with –  _oh_  -"

In any other setting, the noises Sherlock can actively hear himself making are completely abhorrent. They're embarrassingly loud and incoherent and normally aborted halfway through because John inevitably finds a new spot to touch and tease and lick and rub and sends Sherlock spiraling into euphoric bliss all over again.

However, as John pushes into him, eyes locked on his, murmuring soft encouragements and stroking the hair back from his face, Sherlock can't be arsed to care about much besides John's beautiful body becoming one with his, bringing them together in the most intimate of ways. Sherlock can _feel_  John in every inch of him, every nerve ending, every vessel of his being. He drapes his legs further onto John's shoulders, drawing him in deeper, purposefully tightening his muscles in the way he knows John loves.

" _Sherlock_ ," John chokes, eyes pinching shut, hand slamming down and fisting in the sheet beside Sherlock's head. "Christ, you want this to be over that quickly?"

"God, yes," Sherlock babbles, rocking his hips up to emphasize his plea. "After that little fellatio performance of yours, I think you owe me."

John snorts, pausing his movements to lean down to brush kisses against Sherlock's lips in that tender, loving way Sherlock secretly adores, practically bending Sherlock in half in the process. "Oh, I  _owe_  you, do I?"

"Mhm," Sherlock hums the affirmative, accepting John's gentle snog, rather smug for someone with a cock in his arse.

Which John seems to agree with as he tosses his hips forward in one sharp thrust, popping a self-satisfied eyebrow as Sherlock cries out, the delicious tingles of John's erection skidding across his prostate shooting out from every nerve ending within him, showering him in pleasure.

This is Sherlock's favorite thing about sex with John. It's always different. Sometimes they laugh, sometimes they stay silent, sometimes one pounds into the other and they both come for England.

And today is another new experience. He loves new experiences with John. Even after years, after plenty of moments and plenty of sex, there are still new things to learn about John Watson.

"Better?" John teases, rocking insistently, hips pushing at Sherlock's thighs.

"I love you," Sherlock whispers with a smile, wrapping his arms around John's neck to bring him down further into a healthy snog,

John's hand trails up one of his thighs, tugging it down from his shoulder to the side of his torso, pressing the muscle with his calloused fingers into his hip, gliding himself deeper into Sherlock. "And I love you," John breathes against his lips, slowing his thrusts to long, deep rolls of his hips. "I love you, baby."

Sparks dance along the insides of Sherlock's eyelids as they fall closed, mouth dropping open simultaneously in a gasp, letting himself be rocked by his lover into the sheets, one calf still perched on John's shoulder, the other wrapped around John's waist, drawing Sherlock's body open for further exploration. He knows how much John enjoys his flexibility, something he's been told over and over in moments of heat, John bending him this way and that, eyes widening every time Sherlock's long limbs accommodated new positions.

Today is no different.

John grips the bend of Sherlock's knee around his hip, his movements slow and sensual, taking all the time in the world to bring them both to orgasm, turning and dropping a kiss to Sherlock's knee where it sits positioned just to the side of John's head, the heel of Sherlock's foot grinding itself into the backs of his ribs. Sherlock moans, fingers dug deep into blond fringe, dropping kisses to the dell where John's bare shoulder and neck meet.

It's calming and exhilarating all at once. To know that this is his from now on. That this is theirs. Together. Always. No more waiting weeks and months and years, but now. Right now. It's theirs. Forever.

The thought of domesticity always seemed completely abhorrent to Sherlock in theory but now, lying here, clinging to John as he makes love to him, settling down is the only thing he wants. Settling down with John. Forever.

His body tightens without warning, his limbs suddenly needs to hold on to John with everything he has, never ever let him go. His insides inevitably clench as well, drawing a deep, guttural cry from his lover's mouth, his movements suddenly quickening, driving harder into Sherlock with every pull. Sherlock barely registers his own words of encouragement falling freely from his elated mouth, begging, pleading for John to come, right now, right this minute, please, oh please, please, please.

And John dutifully obeys, panting deliciously heated breathes into the whorl of Sherlock's ear as he pours himself into Sherlock, muttering, "o-oh, god, baby, god -  _fuck_  Sherlock, yeah, y-yeah," in that husky, broken way that sends shivers down Sherlock's spine without fail every single time.

And before John has finished completely, body still shaking with pleasure, he's wrapping his hand around Sherlock's neglected cock between them. And without warning, Sherlock is going off like a booster rocket, come splattering along his chest and stomach, cries ripping from his lips with every dirty flick of John's wrist, fists clenching in John's hair and holding on for dear life, body rocked with sinful satisfaction.

He can't let go.

Even as his body calms and John slumps boneless against him, he can't, for the life of him, let go of this perfect boy.

And he relaxes, as John seems to be in the same position, arms coming to circle under his torso, clinging to him helplessly. They breathe in each other's after-sex musk and bask in the glow of their lovemaking, gentle brushes of lips caressing naked skin wherever each can reach.

And it suddenly hits Sherlock that it's all over.

Uni is done.

Sebastian Wilkes is done.

Distance is done.

John is home.

John is home.

John is home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for stopping by and reading my work! I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> IMPORTANT: I am no longer taking prompts for this series. I may at a later date but for now, I will not be taking any more. If you have questions, feel free to drop me a note on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page.
> 
> I will also no longer be updating weekly. I am going to take a small break from the series for a few weeks. Updates will be at random.
> 
> If you have already made a request, I have them all noted and it will be written! I promise I'm not abandoning this series, but I am going to step back for a bit and refocus. Again, if you have questions, please let me know.
> 
> Thank you for your support!


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